Shea

"Jayden told me you got kicked out of KSS," KJ shouts over the crowded hallway. "But I didn't think you'd come to a shit-hole like Boucherie to finish your senior year. Thought for sure you'd hit up some elite school like Immaculata, bro."

I balance my iPhone on my armful of textbooks as I unlock the door of my locker. I spent the past half hour in the library dealing with the frustrating problem of my name not yet being in the school's directory. It made signing out my textbooks for this semester a pain in the ass. I tried to channel the patience my mother has, and it worked, but I'm unraveling. Everything about this school pisses me off, from the lack of space to the grade nines who think they're on top of the fucking world.

"Yeah," I drawl, my tone flippant, "well, that's what happens when you get into a fistfight with the captain of the basketball team."

It's only a partial version of the truth. While I got into a fight with the captain of the basketball team because of a disagreement, I was also leaning heavily on my last warning. One more strike against my name was all it took for them to kick me out of Kelowna Secondary School. Now, because of the captain's innate level of idiocy, I'm stuck here, in the overpopulated high school that sits under the shade of a mountain all year.

Today's been a shit day so far. Every day is going to be shit. When I'm at school, as least.

KJ stares at me. His mouth is slack, as if he can't believe I'm in a pissy mood. "Jesus, Shea. What crawled up your ass this morning? You're acting like a bigger dick than usual."

I wrench the door to my locker open and place all my textbooks on the top shelf, save for my Pre-Calculus textbook—that's my first class today. "The bigger the better," I grin.

"Aw, come on, man. Don't be so disgusting."

I shrug.

There are two dead beats of silence while KJ tries to not yell at me. There's such a strain in his jaw, I wonder if his throat is aching from not being able to react. He's wanted to yell at me since I got kicked out of the game on Friday—and it's not just because of me getting the boot. He wants to yell at me for my attitude, for having to move schools, and any other mistake I've made within the past year. And while I want to use the continuous fighting between my parents as an excuse for my behaviour, I know I can't. Despite the shitty situation at home, my behaviour is something I can control.

"Anyway," I smirk. I slam my locker door shut and spin around on my heel, coming face-to-face with him. "Thanks for giving me a tour of this shit-hole, Grandpa. It's nice to know I can count on someone to tattle on me when I step out of line. You fucking narc."

KJ shakes his head and I feel a twinge of guilt. Maybe I'm being too pissy. It's not like KJ's done anything to me. Then again, I'm already on a roll. Acting pissy sounds appealing.

"If you don't get your shit together, man, Coach is going to tie you to the bench for the rest of the season. Don't fuck this up." His tone sharpens. "Seriously—we need you."

"Aw, I feel so loved. Are we done here? I've got a class to get to." Rolling my eyes, I glance down at the crumpled map in my hand. The set-up of this school makes no sense to me, but there's nothing I can do about it. I head toward my Pre-Calculus class, passing by the dreaded library and the Home Economics rooms, where the hallway smells of deep-fried food. It makes my stomach churn.

"No," KJ replies, catching up to me. "We're not done here. What do we do about Harrison? We need to scope out her weaknesses or something if we're going to beat West Kelowna. I swear, man, she got better over the summer." 

A sneer encompasses my face and my nose wrinkles with disgust; the last thing I want to talk about is Brenna Fucking Harrison. The girl is problematic in every way, from her dark-brown hair to the sneaky wrist-shot she has. Her worst attribute, though, would be her stubbornness. No matter how many people disrespect her or judge her for playing with the big boys, she's too stubborn to give up. Scoping out her weaknesses would be the best option, but there's no way in hell I want to get that close to her. I'd rather eat maggots than spend a minute alone with her.

"We're just going to play the game and hope her temper gets the best of her," I shrug. "Maybe she'll break two knuckles while she's at it."

KJ's sigh is heavy. "You're probably right." He glances down at his watch. "The bell's gonna ring any second now. See you at lunch?"

"Yep," I nod, giving him a sardonic smile as he turns around to head in the opposite direction. Out of the four classes I'm taking, KJ and I only have one together: French. That's one class I'm not looking forward to. I've never been good with learning another language, but I need it in order to graduate.

The whole walk to my class is shit. I feel like a sardine that's been packed tightly into an overcrowded can. It smells equally bad, too. Like a mixture of sweat, perfume, ink, and dirty gym socks. Goddamn high school. I can't wait until this year is over and I'm playing hockey at Boston University. That's still an entire year away—if I can make it. In the meantime, I'm going to push my way through the hallways. I'll find new ways to piss Harrison off. I'll hit up every party I can on the weekends... when I'm not looking after my sister.

Just as I'm coming around the corner to my class, I slam into someone in the hallway. Books and papers scatter across the gaudy blue laminate flooring, and the sharp scent of black coffee fills the hallway... and soaks the front of my shirt. I groan. Great.

"What the fuck?" I groan.

"Oh my God," the girl says, "I'm so sorry. I didn't see where I was—oh. It's you. Apology retracted."

My blood boils—I'd know that voice anywhere.

I look up and meet a pair of familiar blue-violet eyes.

Brenna Harrison.

I cross my arms, my T-shirt drawing tight over my chest and shoulders. She doesn't look pleased with my presence.

"What's up, Brenna?" I drawl.

She shakes her head, glaring at me. "Don't know, Shea," she hisses. "But I would like to know what the fuck you're doing in my school."

As I contemplate how I'm going to respond to her question, I mentally catalogue her. This is the first time I've seen her without sweat drenching her hair. She's a tall thing—probably only half an inch shorter than me. There's not much to brag about in the boob department, but I suppose her ass makes up for that loss; the tight, black leggings she's wearing hugs it perfectly. She's wearing a boyfriend-style, red-and-black chequered flannel. If I'm being honest, she looks normal. But I know she's definitely not normal. She couldn't even accept my apology from Friday night's game.

I shrug. "Figured it was time for a change of scenery." I flick away a nonexistent piece of lint from my sleeve. "KSS was dragging me down."

Her nose wrinkles as she responds. "Well, you don't belong here. Hard pass on having to deal with your sorry ass every day."

"Hard, eh?" I lick my bottom lip. "Is that..." I trail off when I notice her split lip, the guilt returning. I hate her. I hate her for stealing my dad's approval from me. And I'll keep shoving her into the boards and cutting off her plays during hockey game. But the memory of my fist connecting with her mouth haunts me. If someone were to punch my little sister, I'd lose my shit.

The memory of her blood on my knuckles causes me to falter. 

Harrison juts her chin out as she leans down to pick up her books. She picks the now-empty coffee cup up and tosses it into a nearby trash can. "No reference to your dick," she says airily, "which I'm assuming is microscopic. Only men with such indifferent attitudes have small dicks."

Before I can throw a retort in her direction, she marches off to the nearest classroom. Through the doorway, I hear her shout at Hunter Tucker.

Frustrated, I glance down at the paper in my hand and double-check both the map and my timetable. Room 016, Pre-Calculus. I look up, searching for the room. Though I hate to admit it, KJ is right—I need to get my shit together so I don't get benched and prevented from being scouted. I've worked this hard to make it to Boston University, and I will not stop now.

It's just... when I see the number of the classroom above the door that Harrison walked into, my mood plummets. She's in my Pre-Calculus class. I sigh. I already have to deal with overpopulation. Now I have to deal with Harrison and her minions? When did life become so fucking unfair?

Shaking my head, I lean down and scoop up my textbook and notebook. The notebook is soaked with coffee and dirt. I sigh again, fixing the mess as best I can. I could run to the washroom for some paper towel, but that would make me late. I'm sure the staff has been warned about my behaviour. I step into the classroom just as the bell rings, earning two deadly glares from Harrison and Tucker. They look smug in their seats. Relaxed.

I snort to myself, throwing my shoulders back and heading for the back of the classroom where two empty desks sit next to each other. If they think two weak glares are going to scare me off, they've got another thing coming.

Shooting them a brash grin, I toss my backpack to the ground and take my seat across the aisle from them. Neither of them looks very pleased with my decision to sit near them, but it only fuels me. Let them act pissy. As if I care.

Their unity is intimidating, but hell will freeze over before I succumb to these clowns.

* * *

When I arrive home, my parents are fighting. Again.

It's been the standard routine for the past year now. My younger sister, Chelsea, is picked up from school by Mom. They arrive home, and Dad stays late at work. Then, when he gets home and dinner has already been put away, an argument erupts between them.

I can't stand the way my parents fight in front of my little sister. Chelsea is only eight. It's not fair for her to have to experience this kind of shit at such a young age. But what pisses me off the most is that they don't acknowledge her begging and pleading for them to stop, tears running down her innocent, round face.

And I know tonight is bad when Chelsea comes rushing up to me as soon as I step inside, wrapping her arms around my waist. Her face is blotchy, eyes red and puffy. "Mom and Dad are fighting again," she sobs.

I drop my hockey bag to the floor and pick my sister up, my muscles screaming in agony. Today's training session after school was rigorous and intense; Coach focused the strengthening exercises on our lower bodies, meaning my thighs tremble every time I use them. I also note that Chelsea is getting too big for this. Honestly? She's too big to carry already. I care too much; I don't want my sister suffering through this alone, even though I'm not suffering—I just get pissed off that my parents can't keep their issues behind closed doors. Chels is too young to hear this kind of shit.

"It's okay, Chels," I murmur, tossing my keys into a bowl on the small rectangular table. I don't bother kicking off my shoes. Vacuuming needs to be done, so what's the point? I carry my sister to the living room, where one of her usual cartoons is playing. "You're getting way too big for this, y'know," I joke, poking her in the ribs. She giggles, but the smile on her face doesn't reach her eyes. The lack of light, the lack of lustre, causes a pit of despair to form in my stomach. I'm desperate to attend Boston University after graduation, but everything is still up in the air. And that's mainly because of the conditions at home. I would never forgive myself if I left Chelsea here to fend for herself in such a toxic environment.

"No," she whimpers, her tears soaking the collar of my shirt. To be honest, I don't know how this kid is anywhere near me. I reek of sweat. "It's not okay."

I sigh. It's not okay. Even an idiot could figure that out. Every night, we have to listen to a screaming match followed by tears and slamming doors. The atmosphere of this entire house reminds me of walking on eggshells—you never know when something, illicit words or under-the-breath comments, is going to set either of them off. Pessimism aside, nothing is going to save the relationship between my parents. I don't know why they haven't called it quits yet.

"C'mon, Chels," I say, shutting the TV off. "Let's get you to bed. You have school tomorrow."

"Can you pick me up tomorrow?" she asks, following me up the stairs.

I close my eyes and suppress a groan. I have another hockey game tomorrow—I'm driving KJ now that we go to the same school. And before we head over to his house, I have a meeting with the student counsellor about my first couple of days at MBSS. She wants to know if I'm comfortable. At least, that's what they want me to think. They want to know if I'm going to behave.

Fuckers.

"I can't," I reply. "I have a hockey game."

Chelsea pulls back, staring at me with her big hazel eyes. They're filled with excitement and awe. If there's one thing my sister loves, it's coming to watch my hockey games. "Can I come and watch?"

Mentally, I do the math. Whoever came up with the ingenious idea that the elementary and middle schools would get out before the high school kids needs a slap across the face. By the time I'm finished with my appointment, KJ and I will only have half an hour to stop at his place and grab his hockey equipment before we're due at the arena.

"Shea?" she presses.

"I'm sorry, Chels," I sigh. We're at the top of the stairs now and my muscles on the verge of giving out. I'm going to be walking around like an old man tomorrow if I don't soak my muscles in hot water before I go to bed. "You could come to Saturday's game, though."

Although my sister looks pissed—I can tell because I get a similar look on my face when I'm pissed—she nods. "Promise?"

"I promise," I reply, sticking out my pinkie finger.

She wraps hers around mine, that childish smile back on her face. I scoop her up over my shoulder, despite my muscles screaming in protest. Chels giggles against my neck.

Halfway down the hallway, I take a sharp left and push the door to her bedroom open. Just like my room, Chelsea's room is fair-sized, with a large window seat on the far side and a walk-in closet. The walls are painted a peachy colour with white trim around the windows and equally white baseboards.

I set my sister down on her bed and turn to the closet. Compared to mine, Chelsea's closet is clean and organized, making it easy for me to find her a pair of pyjamas. I toss them at her and they land on her head, sliding down to the ground. As if it's the funniest thing in the world, she laughs. She picks up the shirt and throws it back at me. It ends up right back in her lap.

"You have school tomorrow," I remind her. "Get changed and brush your teeth—don't forget to floss, too. I'll grab you the glass of water you always need but never drink." The only thing that drinks out of it is Peaches, our grumpy tabby cat.

"Fine," Chelsea sighs, gathering up her pyjamas. She steps out of the bedroom and down the hallway. I wait in her closet until I hear the bathroom door click shut. Bedtime is a game for Chelsea. I can't wait until she's old enough to realize that sleep is a blessing and that you can't get enough of it.

While Chelsea is getting ready for bed, I head downstairs and grab that glass of water for Peaches. I also stop next to the fridge and refill the cat's food dish, and the water dish she never drinks out of. She'll cry until the cup is on the nightstand, despite there being a fresh dish of water in the kitchen.

Chelsea is in bed when I return. I set her water down on the nightstand and sit on the edge of the bed. I feel like I should say something about our parents, something that will brighten her spirits. But how do I comfort her when I don't even know what's going on between them? The last legitimate conversation I had with them was last year when I received my report card. Even then, things were choppy. I know it's their relationship and whatever problems they're dealing with stay between them, but I also know that I deserve some information when Chelsea has become my responsibility. I've taken on the role of older brother and guardian.

All I ask is, "You good, kid?"

Chelsea nods. The puffiness of her eyes has gone down, but it isn't hard to tell she's still upset.

"Okay," I say, ruffling her hair. "Night, Chels."

I lean over and turn off the lamp. From the far corner of the room is the rose-gold glow of her nightlight. Moonlight shines through the window. I feel bad for not saying anything, but I don't want to put false hope in her little head. She'll only face disappointment.

Closing the door behind me, I head down the hallway to my bedroom. The only good thing about having a bedroom upstairs is that you can't hear all the screaming and shouting as you can when you're downstairs. Stripping out of my workout gear, until I'm in nothing but my shorts, I grab a clean towel from my closet and head to my bathroom. I sacrificed closet space for a bathroom and I'll never regret it. It gives me privacy.

Before I think about tossing the towels on the counter, I turn on the hot water and let it run for a few minutes. Within those few minutes, I discard the towels and strip out of my shorts. I have to hold on to the edge of the counter to keep my balance. My muscles are shaking. I manage to make it through the process of stripping down without keeling over, though.

I groan as I head for the steaming shower, rubbing my tired face. Every muscle in my body feels like it's going to give out on me. I'm mentally exhausted, too. Whenever I see my sister as upset as she was today, I'm greeted by the horrible truth of reality. Boston University will be a pipe dream. I could never leave my sister behind. I don't know where I'm going to get the money. I've saved up a lot, but unless I receive a scholarship, everything I've worked for means nothing. Unless my parents' relationship improves, I'm stuck here.